Just Dance
by woodbyne
Summary: When ballet meets break-dancing, beautiful things can happen. Of course, Alfred could also meet Matthew, and they could not hit it off. At all. Chosen from their respective companies, how is a stuck up prima ballerina supposed to dance with a low-down thug with his pants too low if neither of them can agree on anything?
1. I Hate You You Hate Me

**I know, I know, I'm not supposed to write any more multi-chapters. But it's Woodbyne's (who is not actually the person doing the writing, in case you missed the memo) 19****th**** birthday today! So can we have a big hand for the woman who watched Step Up Revolution with me just so she could read this fic. So have some dancing fun!**

"No way," Alfred drawled, his eyes resting lazily on a dancing couple across the room, reflected twice in the double mirrors that lined the walls, and the bar that encircled them.

The girl was rake thin in her body-hugging practise leotard, as opposed to the guy holding her up, who was wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt. Both dancers had their hair in buns, and they were both focused on their steps.

"So," Alfred sighed, slouching beside his dance instructor, "Which one of the pro-ana Barbies gets to dance with me?" This was a stupid idea, insofar as he was concerned and considering Køhler had picked him to dance with the pretty, little princess; that was pretty far.

"Oh, give it a chance, Al. It's a one off, and it's not like they're bad dancers," said Mathia Anderson, "Besides, we could have to deal with the Latin dance company, and they have a completely different method of performance." The Dane sighed at the same time as the blond man beside her pursed his lips slightly, the ballet instructor, gestured to a pair dancing together. The boy was spinning the girl like a top, hoisting her into the air before swinging her down. She had a sharp face, sandy hair that was pulled back into a severe bun and poisonously green eyes. Pretty enough, but she looked like a prize ice bitch.

"Yeah, but do I have to dance with the ice-queen over there?" the American whined, staring disappointedly at the skinny woman being thrown around.

"Uh-" Mathia was interrupted by the couple across the room breaking apart and squabbling.

"Stop man-handling me, Williams! I'm a person, not a box you can toss around!" a crisp, English accent snapped through the air, and both of the spectators winced as the man defended himself too quietly for them to hear. But whatever he had said hadn't been nice, because her cheeks burnt with red anger,

"I'm perfectly flexible, you tosspot, it's not my fault you're not holding me properly!" she shot back, nose in the air as she stalked off to the bar, leaving the man alone, shaking his head and frowning.

"Oh man," Alfred groaned, hanging his head in despair, "This is going to be a _riot_."

"You're not dancing with _her_," an accented voice whispered in Alfred's ear, making him turn and swat at the air next to his head, "Look," a blond Frenchman had appeared at his shoulder, making a little view-finder with his fingers, and aiming it across the room where the same guy was dancing with a dark-skinned girl, her hair held back with red ribbon.

"So I'm dancing with her?" the puzzled American asked, feeling uncomfortable in the ballet studio.

"_Non_," the view-finder shrunk until it was focussed on the face of the man who was currently holding her up, before the hands fell away, clapping together so loudly that it made the American jump.

"Matthieu! Put Michelle down and come here," Obediently, the dark-haired young woman was set down and the man who had been holding her walked – no, not walked, he glided – across the glassy floorboards to stand in front of the trio.

"_Ouias_, Monsieur Bonnefoy?" he asked, voice quiet and unassuming. Alfred hated him already. From the way he spoke French to the way his ballet-slipper'd feet were set at a perfect forty-five degree angle. This was going to be a treat.

"Matthieu, I would like to introduce you to the …B-boy representative from our urban company, Monsieur Alfred Jones and his director, Madame Mathia Anderson. Madame, Monsieur, it is my pleasure to introduce Monsieur Matthieu Williams, this company's _premier danseur_." The vaguest sense of distaste in Francis' voice faded when he turned to the ballet dancer, replaced by glowing pride.

Matthew smiled, a slight hardness of his jaw the only indication that it was at all forced, he extended a hand to the 'b-boy'. Low hanging jeans, red-white-and-blue trainers, and a white wife-beater, topped off with a backwards baseball cap. Alfred Jones wasn't bad to look at, exactly, well built, fair hair, tanned skin and blue eyes; lines of muscle were clearly visible through his flimsy shirt. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Jones."

"You're American?" Alfred asked in surprise, taking the other's hand.

"_Canadian_," he said frostily, pale hand gripping tan with a little more force than was necessary.

"Oh," whatever good opinion Alfred might have had about his new dance partner disintegrated. If the girl he had been holding up looked like the ice princess, then that must make Matthieu the ice _king_. What kind of guy voluntarily wore ballet shoes? And who was that kind of creepy-pale? It only cemented Alfred's opinion of ice-king when he noted the almost-red hair and oddly blue-purple eyes. _Great_. The only good thing that the American could say about the Canadian, aside from that he wasn't bad –looking, was that he wasn't wearing tights. Yet.

"Well," Mathia clapped her hands together, much as Francis had done, but to lesser effect, "We'll leave you two to it! Mr Bonnefoy, if you could come with me, I'd like to organise a schedule?" she lead the Frenchman off, leaving the two teenagers to glare at each other.

"So, _Matthieu_," Alfred drawled, slouching, his eyes balefully judging the other. Slighter of build; he was lankier than the break dancer, which made him look taller, though they were around the same height.

"_Matthew_," the Canadian corrected him, his back ramrod straight as he looked down his nose at Alfred, "My name is _Matthew_, now how are we going to do this?"

"Right you are Mattie. How aboot you put on your tutu and we'll start this thing, eh?" Alfred grinned, his eyebrow quirking by way of a challenge.

"Sure, Alfie, why doncha jus git dressed first? Ah kin see yer pubes." Matthew retorted in a horrible mangling of the American's accent.

Alfred's mouth mashed into a hard line, "Well, I hope you know that I'm not going to dance with a beginner. I expect you to be able to do this," barely before he'd finished his sentence, the American leant backwards until his hand touched the floor, forming an arch with his body. With quick, slightly mechanical movements, he kicked his legs into the air, using the hand that wasn't supporting his weight to touch his feet. It only took a moment, and it was over just as quickly, Alfred pivoting himself out of the position and back onto his feet, "But of course, you probably can't do that. It takes years of long practise." He shrugged, a self-satisfied grin all-over his face.

"You're not the only one who won't dance with an amateur," Matthew said, trying not to look impressed and barely succeeding, "I hope you can do this?" It didn't take a second, and because Alfred hadn't really been paying attention, so he didn't quite see the way the Canadian had brought his knee up, swiftly followed by his calf, all he saw was that Matthew was on one leg, the other one being held beside his ear, and the other teen looked… taller? Looking down, Alfred almost swore. He was _en pointe_; the very tips of his toes. Damn it. "But that takes years of training, so I suppose you can't."

"Alright, lads, " that same crisp English accent cut through the tension, and Matthew resumed standing the way most people would, "Slap em on the table and I'll get my tape measure. " the bun had been let down and retied into two long, thin pigtails, but the poisonous green eyes were just the same behind their thin-framed spectacles.

"This is none of your business, you corpulent bitch," the male ballet dancer said pleasantly, smile warm but eyes frosty,

"Thank God for that, you worthless piece of shit," she sniped, flicking her hair over her shoulder and gliding out the door. Everyone in this wretched place seemed to hover a half inch over the floor when they walked.

"Bye, Alice!"

"See you tomorrow, Matt!"

Alfred wanted to go home.


	2. Put Up Your Dukes, Pretty Boy

**Readers, please take a moment to look up into the left hand corner of the page. You will notice that this story now has a cover. This cover was hand-drawn by me, for you – I love you that much. The link is as follows, if you'd like to get a better view. ** 25. media. tumblr tumblr_mb8cfrt2hR1romtn1o1_1280. jpg** Just remove the spaces. Yes, Matthew IS wearing pants. **

"Why was it that Køhler thought we would work better off the main school campus?" Alfred asked, wide eyed as Mathia escorted her company through the labyrinthine buildings of the Hetalia Academy of Dance.

"He thought it would be less restrictive," the Dane said blithely, consulting her map before leading them onwards. Alfred was awestruck. When he had signed on, he had heard that it was a big school; it was an umbrella for pretty much every dance style under the sun, and had a company or two of its own for the graduated students. There were students walking to and from class, chatting and laughing the way normal highschoolers would. The American was home-schooled, so this was all pretty fascinating.

"The rest of the team is in the cafeteria," the director sighed, "I need to have a word with Mr Antiqua. I'll see you in the auditorium afterwards, yeah? Matthew will show you the way, I'm sure."

Fiddling with the bandages that covered his arms from wrist to elbow, "Yeah. Sure."

~====o)0(o====~

To say that what awaited him in the cafeteria was a surprise was a gigantic understatement. The blonde ice bitch and the ice king were sitting across from each other, flicking sprouts at each other. Laughing.

"Scuse me," he said, catching the nearest passing ballerina by the arm – he vaguely recognised her as the dark haired girl from yesterday, the one with red ribbons in her hair, "Don't they hate each other?" Alfred gestured at the pair, who appeared to be discussing the pros and cons of balsamic versus Greek style dressing.

"Alice and Matthew?" she laughed, and her accent was almost as thick as Francis'. And almost as French, "You'd think so, yeah? No, they're best friends. Diet buddies, too. Alice has to drop a pound or two before her audition for the Royal Ballet. They just swear at each other a lot."

"I hate this place already," the blond muttered sullenly.

"What was that?" the girl asked, and he flashed his brightest smile,

"Nothing, sorry, just talking to myself."

"Yeah, okay. I'm Michelle. See you around, B Boy," and with a flick of her inky curls, Michelle and her own salad was gone.

Glancing about and catching sight of the table full of his fellow break-dancers, Alfred looked between them and the chatting couple. Well, might as well cause some havoc, and it wasn't a' if the rest of the team liked him very much anyway.

"Yo, Mattie," he slapped on his biggest grin, flopping into a seat beside the Canadian, "Why don't you introduce me to your lady friend? I'm sure she'd appreciate having a real man to talk to."

"Sorry, _boy_," the Englishwoman's tone was frigid, and Alfred suddenly realised that he might have underestimated her age, "But the only man I need is the strap-on my girlfriend wears." The images that besieged the American's brain weren't meshing. Nor did he particularly want them to.

"Are you always lesbian, or only mostly?" It was a line he'd heard in a movie somewhere, and it seemed like the most appropriate come-back for that. Caught off guard, but not thrown, he could proudly say.

There was a muscle ticking in Matthew's jaw, and he refused to turn his head to so much as glance at Alfred as he bit out his response.

"Go suck cock, Jones."

Ah, familiar territory.

"Says the dude who voluntarily wears tights," the American snorted, stealing a carrot out of the Canadian's salad. Yup. This was much better than hanging out with the rest of the crew, who only pretended to like him. At least Matthew was being honest with the fact that he wanted to give Alfred a lethal injection.

"The fact that I do ballet," it was an odd contrast; the clearly enunciated words coming from behind teeth that were clenched so hard that you could almost hear them creaking. This was obviously a sore topic, "Has _nothing_ to do with my sexuality."

"Well if you're the kind of red-blooded, metrosexual, American male-"

"_Canadian_!"

"-Who enjoys prancing around in skin-tight spandex and pretending to be a fairy, then I won't stop you. Narnia needs a new White Witch anyway."

This time, Matthew was looking straight at Alfred, literally shaking with rage, indigo eyes blazing with hatred. Alfred chomped cheerily on the carrot as he watched the self-professed Canadian take several steadying breaths.

"That's rich coming from you. Or were the other inmates too repulsed to take you up on the offer of free butt sex? By the way," a smile stretched Matthew's lips and crinkled at the corners of his cold eyes. Not a nice smile, but rather one that sharpened his features, giving him the vague impression of a fox with a chicken in its jaws, "Your fake tan does a stellar job covering your prison tattoos."

"Like you would know. I'd drag you into the sun myself if I wasn't so afraid you'd sparkle, vampire boy."

Matthew's jaw dropped, and proceeded to open and close soundlessly as he struggled to find the words to articulate his disgust.

"Is there something you wanted, Jones?" Alice chipped in. She'd been boredly observing the argument and decided to step in before this degenerated into a fist-fight.

"Actually, yeah. Which way is the auditorium? I've gotta be there…" he checked the watch he'd strapped on over his bandages, "In three minutes. Shit."

"That exit, first left, down the corridor and to the right," she said, displeased that her lunch had been reduced to a playground taunting match because the American needed directions. Her eyes lingered on the bandages, her lips pursing. Alfred caught the look, and his grin widened. She actually looked worried about him.

"Don't you worry about me, doll face, they're just for show. In the even that you haven't just given me the wrong directions, thanks." Throwing the pair a mock salute, he jogged through the crowded tables in the direction he had been pointed.

Glowering after the retreating American, Matthew turned to Alice, "Why _did_ you give him the right directions?"

"That lad just gave you a proper bollocking. I've never seen you so wound up about anything. Besides, we both know you're gay," she flicked a bean sprout at the Canadian .

"That still has nothing to do with my doing ballet!"

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew stared disdainfully at the plush blue velvet curtains as the lights dimmed in the hall around him and the murmurings of his fellow students quieted. This was doubtless going to be entertaining, if only because he got to upstage the break-dancers once their fifteen minutes of fame was up.

It took a confidant man to wear snow white spandex tights and ballet slippers in the middle of an auditorium.

The curtains pulled apart, and it was obvious to see what Alfred had meant when he said that the bandages were for show. They were wrapped around his wrists, yes, but also around his chest, which was sans shirt. His director was standing beside him, both with their backs to the rest of the hall and she had matching bandages. Only she had a huge axe tattoo extending from shoulder blade to shoulder blade and all the way down her spine.

The Canadian waited for a bored five seconds before the music (if such it could be called) kicked into gear. The American remained perfectly still while the Dane broke away from her post and used him as a sort of prop, dancing around him. Matthew had to admit that she was good; fluid, precise movements, sure steps. Her eyes never left the audience. About half a minute in, the music changed again and Alfred began to move. The Canuck's mouth mashed into a hard line. If Mathia Anderson was fluid, then Alfred Jones was boneless. He bent and moved like water, melting down to the ground only to kick his legs up into the air, his muscles locked perfectly in place. And they were impressive muscles. The lack of shirts was obviously intentional, because both the American and his director were rippling with muscle. The dance seemed to be less of a dance and more of a compilation of greatest hits set to music. They went to one trick to another almost without pause, building momentum from a spin to push up into a handstand, headspin, something that looked like a pommel horse but on the ground. It was actually quite impressive. The two dancers mirrored each other, moving in ways that surely no human should be able to move. Arms, spines, legs; they didn't bend that way! Where were their bones? By the time the song was over, Matthew's scowl could have won prizes.

~====o)0(o====~

Alfred collapsed grinning into his seat. The applause that he and Mathia had received had been more than simply polite. The excited murmurs died down as the curtains opened again. Cool blue stage lights lit some Grecian tale of fauns and nymphs. It was quite impressive the way that the way that they all moved and fluttered at once, but the one Alfred was trying not to look like he was looking at was Matthew. He'd look better in a dark colour, but that didn't mean that white didn't suit him as he pranced about the stage. Perfectly in control. That was the dominating message that the American got from the other when he danced. He was perfectly in control of his body, his life, his emotions, and he took great delight in that. Whether it was tripping about on tiptoe, en point or jumping in a way that made it look effortless, though Alfred knew it wasn't. All too soon the harpsichord stopped tinkling and the dancers bowed. It probably wasn't the American's imagination that Matthew was giving him a smug glare from the stage.

"Matthieu, stay a moment," he heard Francis say at the same time as Mathia called,

"Hey, Al, come up here a second?" Obediently, the American trotted up to the stage, wrestling himself back into his tee shirt and managing to trip only once on the stairs.

"Yeah?" he said, easy grin sliding into place besides Matthew's murderous glower.

"You two have some time now to work on your routine for the exhibition. Don't waste it," Francis smiled, making an elegant hand gesture as he turned to Mathia, "Do you have somewhere you need to be, or would you care to take a late lunch with me?"

"I need to go check on my boyfriend and his broken ankle, but I'll be back in about an hour. You two be good," she cautioned, giving the dancers a stern look.

"Very well. Matthieu knows where to find me. Best of luck, boys~"

Alfred turned slowly to face Matthew, a wary expression hiding behind his slipping grin. Matthew smiled. It wasn't a nice smile this time, either.

~====o)0(o====~

"Put em up then, pretty boy," Alfred teased, bobbing his head from side to side, bouncing from foot to foot like they were in a boxing ring instead of a stage. Their earlier argument had escalated to new heights and, honestly, he was having a blast. It was really fun to have someone not try and suck up to him for once.

"You're a waste of my time," Matthew said stiffly, turning to walk away. He felt a hand land heavily on his shoulder to turn him back.

That's when he punched him.

Or tried to. Alfred's body swerved out of the path of the Canuck's fist in that bonelessly flexible way he had of doing everything, and it made the Canadian want to hurt him even more. The American threw his own punch and Matt spun to the side, avoiding it, tugging on Al's outstretched arm, reeling himself in and using the other's bodyweight to shove him to the floor.

With a frustrated snarl, Alfred kicked his legs up into V sweep, aiming for Matthew's head.

"You!" Matthew was speechless with rage as he lunged, missing a sneaker to the head by a hair's breadth.

"_Me_?" the American yelled, making to kick the ballet dancer's feet out from under him and howling in frustration when he leapt, cat-like into the air, "What about _you_?" Alfred demanded, on his feet again.

"What /about/ me?" was the growled answer. Punch, twist, kick, swerve, duck, dodge, lunge, spin, they kept at it. Each one unable to land a blow on the other. The more frustrated they became, the faster they moved, the closer they got, until they both had each other by the collars of their shirts.

A slow clap broke them apart, their directors standing side by side, beaming up at the stage,

"Well, Alfred knows how I feel about uprock, but that was pretty impressive."

"Yes, quite. Matthew, your form was sloppy, do work on that, but overall you two move together very well."

Staring at the two adults, they teenagers looked back at each other in absolute horror.


	3. No Sir No Dancing Today

**BIG WHOOHOO FOR WOODSY**

**Just because.**

**I realise that I forgot to thank you all for your lovely reviews! daedricgurl, hero-madness123, cuzimafreak , themagnificent ME, xXthenextbookwormXx, sassy-hime, Zenna95, 91RedRoses, Lady Queria, Milady, SaraBarns, IAmACat, Guest, iLovelyJulz, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior, otakuprincessluna, GreyMoth, tmmdeathwishraven, and Anon007!**

**Matthew's listening to Three Day's Grace.**

"Dude, did you not hear a word I just said?! Seriously!" Alfred seethed, his tank top flung somewhere in the far corner of the auditorium, "When I do my freeze, you do your pretty-ballerina twirly thing. It's not rocket science!"

Matthew's hands balled into fists at his side and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down, "And I keep _telling_ you, you clusterfuck of stupidity, I can't just 'do' a pirouette, I need a kick off. Mom. En. Tum. "

"And you could _have_ your fucking kick off if you could just agree on a goddamn song so we could get a rhythm down instead of dancing on four-four time!" The American yelled back in frustration, kicking at the air.

"I'm not going to put myself up on stage in front of delegates from all over the world just to make an ass of myself by dancing the Nutcracker to Snoop Dog," Matthew threw his arms up. They were edging dangerously close to each other again. It seemed inevitable that whenever they got within arm's reach of each other, punches would start to fly. It was safer, therefore, to just dish insults. Neither of them could afford to get hurt. Matthew was right, there were going to be dancers and company directors from the globe over at the recital. There were few dance schools that covered quite the range of styles that the Hetalia Academy did, and it attracted a lot of international attention. A passing grade from Hetalia practically guaranteed the pupil a spot in whatever company they wanted. Phenomenal training, dedicated, talented dancers; who wouldn't want them?

"_Slim Thug_," Alfred said shortly – this wasn't the first time he'd had to explain the difference between Like A Boss and Drop It Like It's Hot, "Slim Thug, not Snoop Dog. And it's just some hopping around in a tutu. You can dance Ballbreaker to anything."

"Slim Thug, Snoop Dog, Obese Canine or Anorexic Hooligan; I. Don't. Give. A. F-"

"_Matthieu!_" Francis snapped from where he had just waltzed in with a sound and lighting crew, "Mind your tongue!"

"-_Fig_." the Canadian hissed venomously. The word itself wasn't particularly threatening; nothing much about figs ever is, unless you don't like eating them. But the way it snaked from between Matthew's clenched teeth and out of his black expression made it a thousand times more ominous than what it was intended to be. There wasn't quite a situation from which a parallel expression could be drawn, but the closest thing Alfred could think of was a cat that had just been dumped in a full bathtub and was about to maul the nearest human.

"You have class, Matthieu," Francis chipped in again before Alfred could whip out another snappy insult, "And I'm sure you have somewhere to be, Mr Jones?"

"Nope," the American said lightly, lips popping on the p, "Is there a computer lab in this building? We still haven't decided on a song. _One of us_," what with the emphasis he put on those words and the meaningful glance he gave Matthew, Alfred couldn't mean himself, "Is being difficult."

"Two corridors over first door on your right," the Frenchman said dismissively and turning his back on the teenagers, leaving them to mouth a few parting comments before going their separate ways; Alfred whistling and Matthew fuming in silent rage.

~====o)0(o====~

Hours later, Alfred blinked at the computer screen. School had long since let out, and his search for a song that the stuck-up Canadian might approve of hadn't borne fruit. Funny cat videos, yes, but fruit, no.

Speaking of musical fruit, there was the faintest sound of music echoing down the corridors. Which was seriously weird, considering that it was getting on seven in the evening and the building was essentially empty.

His curiosity over-riding every survival instinct he possessed (honed watching teen slasher flicks), the American followed the sound, which slowly came into being, drum, guitar, a voice. What was _rock_ music doing in the _ballet_ campus? It wasn't bad music, per se. The guitar was a little rougher than Alfred would have preferred, and the vocals were a little shouty in places, but it wasn't bad.

The music was blasting out of one of the empty ballet studios, the mirrored room reflecting its sole occupant.

Hanging back in the shadows of the doorway, Alfred watched Matthew move to the underlying rhythm of the music, feel a little bit as though he were intruding on something very private. This was … Personal. The way that his body opened and closed itself off, soaring with the crescendos and collapsing in on himself before rising up again. The next song started, faster, more aggressive and Matthew just kept on moving with it; his steps quicker and his movements more aggressive. It must be a favourite CD, Alfred surmised, watching the way the music seemed to flow through the Canadian and out in some kind of emotional release.

The American blinked.

This music was _really_ depressing.

'I can't escape this hell,' 'But I'm still caged inside,' 'Somebody get me through this nightmare'. Jesus Christ, what was Matthew listening to? And all with a serene smile on his lips. His hair was falling in his face, and sweat was staining his shirt, but still there was the most peaceful, euphoric smile on Matthew's face. The way he moved was no less controlled than it had been in the auditorium, but his face wasn't creased into the determined frown that seemed to be his default facial expression.

When he danced, he was _happy_, Alfred realised with a little start.

Again, the song changed; slower, mellower, and equally sad. This was somehow more like ballet music – though at the same time it was completely other. Slow, graceful sweeps of leg and arm, purposefully effortless leaps. And not a bad landing among them.

~====o)0(o====~

Alfred gave Matthew time to change before following him into the locker room. His hair was loose, which was a new sight. He didn't look quite so severe with one crazy curl hanging in his face and the rest of those blond waves tickling his jaw. There were glasses on his crooked nose, and – to pile discovery upon discovery – Alfred realised that the ice king was kind of a dork. Glasses, long hair, and _no_ fashion sense whatsoever. It was hard to believe that the man who had just been so completely in charge of himself was so… average.

"I guess you do wear normal clothes sometimes, huh?" Alfred said, voice whip-crack loud in the silence, making Matthew yelp and twist to see behind him, his eyes wide and horrified. Not angry, as Alfred had been expecting, but _scared_.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Jones?" he snapped; hackles up and glasses askew. The defiant anger was back in his eyes, but there was still something just a little bit panicky about his expression.

"Working late, same as you," the B Boy shrugged, slinging himself onto the low bench beside the Canadian, "Why so jumpy?"

"Some fucking psycho just snuck up behind me in the changing rooms," Matthew said sardonically, "And you call _me_ gay."

"Dude, chill out, I'm not going to rape you in the locker room. Jesus," Alfred rolled his eyes, leaning back, stupid grin all over his face.

"I'd like to see you _try_," the pale teen snorted, stuffing his things into a backpack until just his shoes were sitting on the bench beside him. His posture was stiff; tensed to run.

"Sorry, man, you're not my type," was the blithe response, "Aintcha gonna put your shoes on?"

A brief frown crossed the Canadian's face, as though he had been hoping that Alfred wouldn't say that. Sighing he pulled out his socks, rolling them up into a ball and-

"Mattie, are you okay?" It had come out sounding more concerned than the American intended, and the tart answer was all the more poisonous for it,

"I'm _fine_."

"Are you sure? Your feet look kind of… mangled," Alfred had to look away from the badly heeled sores, the old scars, the callouses. It seemed wrong that the feet that carried Matthew so gracefully would look so painful.

"I'm the best ballet dancer here. Everything comes with a price," the Canadian's voice was tired.

"Does it hurt?" the break-dancer's voice was softer now, not harsh or teasing, and it almost seemed as if he actually cared.

"Not anymore," once more Matthew was stiff, brusque and business-like, shoving on socks and shoes before he stood and swung his backpack onto his shoulders.

He was halfway out the door when Alfred's snark returned to cover the horribly awkward moment of intimacy that had passed between them, "Cry more, emo kid!"

"You're so immature, Jones," Matthew rolled his eyes, glad that the other couldn't see his relieved smile. There was a reason he stayed late, after all.

"If mature means listening to the same depressing shit as you do, then thank God!" Alfred yelled, jogging off down the corridor to the exit. He was going to be late home and his mom was going to _murder_ him.

"Son of a _bitch_," Matthew breathed, smile dropping straight off his face.


End file.
